


Sad To See You Go (Was Sort of Hoping That You'd Stay)

by handcversbruise



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, F/M, Feelings, First Meetings, Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:41:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handcversbruise/pseuds/handcversbruise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe I'm too busy being yours to fall for somebody new.</p><p>[Or Britta's drunk and bumps into Jeff and the night's were mainly made for saying things you can't say tomorrow day.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sad To See You Go (Was Sort of Hoping That You'd Stay)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Heavily influenced by Stop The World I Wanna Get Off With You & Do I Wanna Know, by Arctic Monkeys. I've had this in my gdocs for like, ages, so I just thought I'd post it. Thanks to Jasmine for the beta!  
> Dedicated to Amy because she's the Jeff to my Britta. Shoutouts to Narmy, Hager, Milla, Emily, Marianna, and whoever else is part of my #CommunityClique. #SixSeasonsandaMovie :D 
> 
> [apologies for the serious lack of study group]

 

Britta’s drinking.

A lot.

The bar she’s in is cozy, small but not crowded, with a reddish tint in the lights. She feels warm all over, in that in between state of drunk and wasted.  With a wave at the cute bartender,  she turns to leave. She's made a mistake by driving to the bar; she figures she can talk someone into letting her keep her car in the parking lot so she can take a cab home.

 

Standing up isn't too hard at first. Her black skinny jeans feel a little too tight on her skin--she can't wait to rip them off and change into her favorite sweats and band tee--a hint of sweat on her forehead.  

The first step has her falling sideways onto the person sitting next to her.

"Woah, sorry. I seem to have lost control of my legs for a bit."

Her voice is slurred, vision blurring as she tries to walk away from the stools, when a sudden wave of nausea comes surging forward.

Okay, Britta needs to get home now.

"Need some help?"

There's a pair of hands on her lower back, steadying her--they're rough, foreign, and she leans into the touch eagerly.

Britta’s drunk as fuck. She's letting strange men manhandle her--she can take care of herself,  drunk or not.

"Not from you!" It comes out whiny instead of defiantly. She whips her head around to face the man, expecting the typical kind of bar creep she's got an unfortunate knack for picking up.

This guy... isn't that.

He's in a dress shirt and casual but new looking jeans, hair disheveled from what seems to be working too much if the folders and papers scattered around his table are anything to go by.

He's handsome to say the least. He also screams "douchebag" and no amount of alcohol can make Britta compromise her "no douchebags" rule.

Not after her last three flings.

He lets go of her, almost apologetically, which makes no sense because he's probably saved her from a humiliating public fall. Britta starts to protest, furrowing her brows together, frowning,  at the realization that she doesn't know Douchebag Guy's name and can't call out for him.

He's walked away from her (has been gone for a while since he's picking up a drink now) when Britta makes the conscious--if you can call it that--decision to chase him down. If she lives to regret this in the morning she can just write this off as a drunken mistake. Add it to the list.

Maneuverability isn't her strong suit on the best day and alcohol isn't helping her get across the bar to DBG. She reaches out to lightly tap his shoulder but it comes out more like a grab, which causes her to stumble a bit, and fall onto the bar.

Smooth, Britta. Real smooth.

"Uh, hey."

The guy raises an eyebrow at her, smirk forming on his face, and Britta glares. Maybe she doesn't need to know his name. Douchebag Guy seems accurate enough. The song changes to one of her favorites, 505 by Arctic Monkeys. So maybe this bar is a hit among hipsters; you'll never find Britta admitting to anything.

If she dropped out of high school to impress Radiohead, no one needs to know.

"--bout you?"

Shit. Apparently she's missed a conversation getting lost in the music.

"What?"

DBG laughs. He raises his glass--single malt scotch, maybe--and drinks from it, not looking away from Britta. His expression is unreadable, seemingly confident in why she's approached him, but mostly amused.

"I said my name's Jeff, I'm a lawyer, and I'm here working on a case. How about you?"

Jeff. She can remember that. She moves to properly position herself on the stool next to him when he's giving her a strange look before cocking his head to the side and leading her back to his table.

They sit down and Britta feels instantly more sober. Grounded.

A giggle escapes her at the thought of Jeff cross examining a witness in a Hawaiian pattern shirt that matches a picture on the wall of the bar. Alright so she's not entirely sober.

"I'm Britta." She attempts to flash a smile at her newly acquired companion but it feels more like a grimace.

Ah well.

"Like the water filter?" There's a smile in his tone. If Britta hadn't heard that all her life she might have laughed. Maybe.

"No. God. B-R-I-T-T-A."

She's rolling her eyes, being needlessly defensive, but Jeff's making her feel weird, feel safe. Probably because he prevented a face down flop, or maybe because he's looking at her like he's interested in more than just a one night stand. She knows his type. Confident kind of successful, materialistic, selfish, self obsessed and so deeply unhappy it would take years to make progress in self healing.

"I'm a student. PhD program at U of C. Psychotherapy." The smile that forms on her face is anything but fake now. Jeff nods his approval.

"Ooh, hide your thoughts kids, Dr. Britta’s analyzing them all."

Her first instinct is to stick out her tongue and kick his leg. So she does.  Jeff's  laugh is rich and deep, and he glances down at his paperwork once he stops.

There's tension in the following moments of silence, as if he's expecting Britta to keep up the banter. She still feels a bit sluggish from the drink but she doesn't want to stop making Jeff laugh, and she's thinking he's probably a little scared of her.

What's not to like about that?

"Careful now. I like to ask about abandonment issues over drinks."

It's meant as a joke, despite every bit of her training screaming at her not to make jokes about important things,  especially to strangers,  the momentary flash of vulnerability in his eyes not unnoticed by her.

"Ha. Good luck. Dad left me as a kid, big deal. It's life."

He takes a particularly long drink from his glass as he stares at his _fascinating_ paperwork. Britta frowns, scrunching up her mouth, kicking herself for ruining a nice chat.

She tends to ruin things.

There's no reason for her to do this, no invitation whatsoever, but she reaches out to take Jeff's hand in hers. His covers hers completely, the difference in their skin's textures overwhelming her senses. It's probably the residual side effects from the many vodka neat's she consumed, but for a second she thinks it's Jeff himself that's making her feel so warm and so much like home.

Which is absolutely ludicrous. They've hardly spoken to each other so it's a bit soon to be referencing Edward Sharpe songs.  

Somehow the look Jeff's giving her forbids an apology, and frankly she's not sure she needs to  say anything, so she rolls her eyes at him, crossing her legs under the small table.

"So Jeff--gonna buy me another drink or should I leave now?"

"What are you having?"

 

\---

 

It's not the first time she wakes up in a strange bed alone but she lays in bed long enough to feel slightly panicked by the blurry memories of the previous night. She's wearing sweats and a shirt three sizes too big; more importantly she's got no idea how she changed.

Sitting up so fast her head feels like it's about to explode, Britta reaches to the bedside table for her phone. There's a few missed calls from her best friend, Annie, along with worried texts from her might as well be second mother Shirley. She ignores those for the unread message from the unknown number.

 _Don't worry, nothing happened. I'm not a douche. Make yourself food before you head out if you want, but you could also stay. Work's over at 5._  

It's not signed with a name but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out it’s Jeff's. Breathing a sigh of relief,  she leans back down onto the comfortable pillows that probably cost more than what she makes in a month working part time at the Ridgedale Mental Health Center--although that only serves to prove Jeff is a douche. Somehow.

If Britta were the kind of person to think through her life decisions, she more than likely would have gotten some toast and left. But given the trajectory of her life and her propensity to live in the moment--live life to the fullest--it’s safe to assume she isn’t. Soft smile on her face, she nuzzles into the pillows, wraps herself up in Jeff's warm comforter and sleeps.

 

\--

 

Britta’s having a hard time figuring out what exactly she's still doing in Jeff's apartment, how she's going to get her car back considering she's drinking for the second night in a row, but more importantly, she’s realizing she can’t read Jeff as well as she thought.

He had woken her up at around 5:30 pm (ignoring the fact that she slept literally all day) with a sandwich from a shop he claims is near his work but she recognizes as being from a fancier place in the upscale part of town. He sat in a comfy chair by the bed while she ate and talked about nothing and everything ("did you know political freedom doesn't exist?" "Ugh those Twilight movies are such bullshit feminism." "What do you mean you don't like Radiohead?!"), making her feel welcome yet aching to leave all at once.

They're in his living room now, watching The Breakfast Club on Jeff's state of the art flat screen tv, a rugged looking quilt thrown over them. It feels oddly domestic considering she's known him for less than two days. It's strange and no matter how tantalizing reminiscing about the Rat Pack days may seem, the need to leave and forget this good samaritan is greater. (Despite his kindness, he's still a stranger.)

Right as the dark haired girl onscreen tells the loving, sensitive jock that her parents ignore her, she decides enough is enough and gets up. She rushes through the house, ignoring Jeff’s questions, stumbling into what she now knows is one of two guest rooms in his townhouse to gather her few scattered belongings.

Jeff stands around the door frame, watching with a bit of a frown on his face as she attempts to make the bed.

"You don't have to do that, the cleaning people are coming tomorrow anyway."

Of course he has someone do even the most basic things for him because _he can_ and he's got a big ego--who cares if he's been nothing but sweet, he's bound to have an ulterior motive she's fervently against sticking around to see.

"Really Britta, you can stay."

There's a hint of something unfamiliar in his eyes, his voice. She wants nothing more than to not want to stay, to turn and leave with no explanation, but she can't will it. And it's not happening naturally.  If there's anything studying psychology has taught Britta is that defense mechanisms are a beautiful, albeit childish, thing.

The sound that comes out of her mouth is meant as a scoff but sounds like a choked back laugh. “Why should I? We don’t know each other. You could be a serial killing, psychopathic lawyer, for all I know.”

Overthinking makes her a bit ridiculous. That’s irrelevant at the moment, since his sheets are refusing to stay down and the smell from the pillows is less than pleasant, reminding her that she needs to go back to her apartment--back to her life. And maybe shower.

Jeff’s wearing a brown knit sweater that compliments his hair in an almost deliberate attempt to match. He raises an eyebrow at her, eyes shining with something new--something dangerous--but he’s letting her collect the stray dishes on her (not hers--his) bedside table.

It feels a little cliche, the raving woman leaving the calm and collected man with no explanation for her irrational behavior, leaving Britta to wonder when she became this. Probably when she woke up in Jeff Winger Esq’s, ate his food, sat on his couch, all within the span of two days.

Her car.

Her car is still at the bar, probably missing the loving insults she throws its way whenever it fails to drive properly. Which is a lot. The car is not a sentient being, it is not missing Britta, and she’s now in Jeff’s kitchen, doing his dishes.

It’s a quick task that settles her nerves enough to know that the wine she’s drank affected her. The combination of hysteria, anxiety, and Jeff makes Britta want to throw caution to the wind and stay.

But a life full of ups and downs has given her “douche ray vision” and she’s still waiting for Jeff to reveal his secret wanton desires. She has class early tomorrow morning, a brief seminar on psychopathology (she holds back a snort at that) before she’s meant to aid a professor teaching general psychology.

“Let me at least call you a cab.”

If Jeff’s reading her mind, then she’s glad he’s at least ignoring her nonsensical thoughts and focusing on the important one. She nods, a small smile playing at her lips.  “Okay.”

 

Thirty minutes later she’s on her way home, with Jeff’s number on a piece of paper in her back pocket, and a plan to never see him again.

 

\---

 

Seven days later, she's at the same bar, mindlessly flirting with a cute local football player named Troy, when her phone buzzes.

_Interested in him?_

More than a little confused, she opts out of answering, instead choosing to focus on whatever football related story Troy’s spouting now. She’s more than a little interested in him if she’s honest, even if it’s just for the night.

Troy leans in close to her, moves a strand of hair from her face causing Britta to giggle. It’s cliche and ridiculous, Troy’s using ridiculous pick up lines that have her rolling her eyes out of irritation rather than flirtation.

Her phone buzzes twice in a row.

_Let me buy you a drink._

_I’m much more handsome than the Jock Boy you’re with._

Ah. Douche Bag Guy--she’s refusing to call him by his name in an attempt to get him out of her head--got her number too. She’s made no contact with him, and plans on keeping it that way. But knowing that he’s back in this bar, watching her interactions with Troy, has her thinking of going back to his place.

She hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him all week. She’s even dreamt about him, spent too much time fabricating whispered conversations between the two.  The last thing she’s ever expected is to go crawling back to Jeff but that’s exactly what she does when Troy suggests they go out to catch a movie sometime.

With a polite smile and gentle touch on his wrist, she walks away.

No more than a minute passes before her phone’s alerting her of yet another text from Jeff.

_I’m by the back, if you were wondering. Should I order the vodka neat with four olives now?_

Britta can’t help the grin that makes its way onto her face, the way her head shakes itself practically as she pockets her phone and turns to find him.

 

\---

 

The night’s heavy with tension between the two as they sip their drinks. Jeff’s dressed in a light blue button down with a gray sweater vest and blazer over it, looking like the $500 an hour he charges for legal advice; Britta’s more casual in a floral print Urban Outfitters dress that goes against all the social issues she stands for, Doc Martens, and a slim fitted jean jacket.

Her chair’s positioned next to his, close enough to smell his Ralph Lauren cologne and feel the hairs on his arm stand up when she scoots up closer to him.

The alcohol’s flowing in her veins, it’s got her all sorts of happy and calm, her head reeling with the urge to touch.

“What do you say we go back to my place?”

It’s a presumptuous invitation but the way Jeff’s eyeing her, like he wants to tear her apart, to mark her as his, has her itching to get somewhere private. Not his place though--she won’t want to leave the next morning if she goes there.

With a barely visible nod of his head, he’s slinking his arm over Britta’s back, pulling her closer. His chest feels warm against her and the heat makes her want to lean her head against him, to just feel the way their bodies fit together, his towering over hers in a way that screams familiar.

But she doesn’t.

Fewer voices surround them--not that they’ve been paying much attention to the crowd--Jeff’s hand tracing patterns on Britta’s shoulder, the feel of his fingers on over her dress overwhelms her.

“Why me? You could probably have anyone else in this bar.”

Vodka’s filling her with confidence, tongue slipping out things she’s only ever let herself think about late at night when Jeff’s not on her mind. When the sky’s too dark to see anything stars, is when he pops up; he’s infiltrated her dreams every night  for the past week, pressing up against her and demanding to know just how many secrets she’s keeping from him.

By now his fifth whiskey is more than halfway gone, his eyes glazed over but his movements steady as he separates himself from her, a frown replacing his usual smirk.

Silence.

“I dislike everyone here but you.”

 

\---

 

It’s skin on skin, rough touches, hair pulling, from the second Britta opens the half broken door to her apartment. Jeff’s blindly leading them to any nearby flat surface, Britta struggling against him in a fight for dominance; even now, she can’t let him have his way, has to make him want this as much as she does.

His hands reach under her dress but she slaps them away. He stops and pulls away, breathing heavily as he presses his forehead against hers, silently asking all those questions she’s been avoiding.

“This is a one time thing, yeah?” Jeff sounds a bit broken, distracted, in too deep to notice how far gone he is.

And yeah, it could be a one time thing, another body to spend time with for the night, but Britta doesn’t want to lie. She doesn’t want to tell the truth either, that this lawyer, who should be skeezy, who personifies the kind of attitude she hates the most, has got her hooked.

“Brit--”

She cuts him off with a kiss, biting on his lower lip in a way she hopes tells him exactly what she wants to say.

Jeff smiles into the kiss, lets himself be led to the couch when Britta moves away, like he’s too dazed to fight against her for once. Her knees hit the couch, and she pulls him down on top of her, noticing the way his face flushes whenever she licks at his neck, and she wants to ask him how many secrets he’s keeping, wants ask him if he’s going to leave soon but that’s -

The questions, the people, everything can be put on hold.


End file.
